


Burning Gods

by flowers_bloom



Category: Hazbin Hotel (Web Series)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, Alternate Universe - Pre-Canon, Angst, Asexual Alastor (Hazbin Hotel), Backstory, Dancing and Singing, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Drinking, F/F, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Heavy Angst, Implied/Referenced Abuse, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Lucifer doesn't feature in the main plot all that much but, M/M, Mild Sexual Content, Murder, Non-Chronological, References to Religion, Reflection, Tags May Change, Theater Actor Vox, Tragedy, look this is pure self-indulgence and projection please do not assume otherwise
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-31
Updated: 2020-10-31
Packaged: 2021-03-08 23:34:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,038
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27215005
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flowers_bloom/pseuds/flowers_bloom
Summary: Rosemary "Rosie" Calvet has murdered Alastair Baudoin with his own shotgun. Her good friend, Lilith Magne, is helping her hide the body.There is always more to stories than people assume. This one is no exception.
Relationships: Alastor & Rosie (Hazbin Hotel), Lilith Magne & Alastor & Vox & Rosie, Lilith Magne & Alastor & Vox & Rosie & Lucifer, Lilith Magne & Rosie (Hazbin Hotel), Lilith Magne/Lucifer Magne, Minor or Background Relationship(s), Rosie & Vox (Hazbin Hotel)
Comments: 2
Kudos: 7





	1. How Do You Bury A Body?

**Author's Note:**

> First mutlichapter for Hazbin! Whoo! 
> 
> I will be including most of my personal hcs, as well as some that have gone into the fandom. 
> 
> I hope you enjoy!

**May 4th, 1937**

It was two am, and Rosemary Calvet was chasing Alastor Baudoin throughout the woods of Louisiana with a shotgun. 

The wind was strong, and she found herself running against it. She clicked the shotgun, putting the bullet into place. Her feet hit the ground at alarming speed despite her high-heeled shoes, and she felt her hair whipping around. Her heart was beating at an extremely fast rate, which she felt more than anything else. 

He, for his measure, was running, running far beyond her. He slipped through the treeline and into a clearing, where the trees were too packed for him to pass through and Rosemary blocked the way he came. He lost his footing and fell on the ground, panting. Seeing Alastor like this was both horrifying and gratifying. 

His brown hair was sticking to his head in skinny, sweat-soaked strands. His eyes were widening, sinking into his skull, and Rosemary felt a sick sense of accomplishment. She was doing what he could never do, she thought, she was scary. She could do things. She was right, forever, and he was wrong, wrong, wrong. 

Rosemary shot him, then, square on his forehead. His eyes were left open, and the wound began to bleed. He laid on the ground tangled in his own limbs, head nearly in his hands, feet curled up, and his jaw unnaturally clenched. He was dead, gone, and she sat down and tried to admire her handiwork. 

She found that she couldn’t look at the body for too long, though. Everything about it was wrong, from the glassy brown eyes to the sweat-soaked shirt to the fact that he was still smiling. It was a rather pleasant smile, really, one not suited for death. It was either ten minutes, or twenty minutes, or perhaps an hour, before Rosemary got up and figured that she had to bury the body. 

Rosemary exited out of the woods the way she came. She didn’t think anybody would be out here, but just in case, she needed to walk fast. She was a lady walking alone at night, odd in itself, covered in dirt and blood, hands trying to find something to grab on to. She felt, though, more alive than she ever had, more aware of her surroundings, the night was never so cold and the stars had never dulled so much. 

After walking about a mile, Rosemary came to an apartment building, an old brick-and-mortar place that looked to be much prettier on the outside. It had an awning in front of its door, with _The Vanderbuilt_ written on it in a swirling font, and a single streetlight next to it that glowed orange-yellow. It looked to be a rather pleasant street, if anything else. 

Rosemary walked up to the door, and found the panel to buzz into apartments. 

She pressed the button for Apartment 6M, and said into the intercom, “Hey, can you come down? It’s important.” 

Rosemary didn’t hear anything back, and after twenty seconds of shifting on her feet, she buzzed in again, “Lili, I know you’re up there. Answer me.” 

She didn’t know how long she stood there, constantly turning around trying to make sure nobody saw her, before she pressed the button, “Lilith Delilah Magne, I swear to God-” 

Rosemary finally received an answer. She heard a loud buzz come out of the speaker, and then Lilith. 

“It is two in the morning. Rosie, what are you doing up?” 

Rosemary paused, then said, “Look, I’ll explain when you get down here. I need your help.” 

“With what, exactly?” 

“Lilith, just get down here. And bring a shovel.” 

“A _shovel?_ I - You know what? Fine. Give me a minute.” 

Rosemary kept looking back, waiting for Lilith downstairs. She felt like her surroundings were fighting against her, the frigid breeze seemed to only hit her neck and every snap of a twig or rustle of a bush had to be something done by people watching her, knowing what she had done, and were waiting for the right moment to spring out and capture her. 

The door swung open. Lilith exited her apartment looking surprisingly good, for a lady who had just woken up. Her dark red hair was waved, her sharp green eyes glittered in the light of the streetlamp, and she didn’t have the movements of a disgruntled, sleepy person. She was, however, carrying a shovel, and that was the only criteria for her right now. 

“Alright, Flower, what do ya’ want?” 

Rosemary grabbed Lilith’s free hand, and began to drag her along the sidewalk, “Look, I need to show you for you to get it. Do you have anybody waiting in your apartment?” 

Lilith shook her head. She avoided her friend’s eyes, and instead tried to look around. The houses were getting more spread out, now, the trees more, and Rosemary could see her friend grow accustomed to the more nature-filled surroundings. Lilith had always been happy in anything natural, anything real, and Rosemary was glad she decided to murder outdoors and not in a factory. 

Rosemary had always had a very good memory, and she led her friend through the woods with surprising accuracy. Lilith followed her, her hands behind her back, pursing her lips and trying to distract herself with anything she possibly could. Rosemary felt a little bad for her, and was almost going to tell her to walk back, but conceded. Lilith had seen worse, done worse, she could handle it. 

They eventually came to the clearing, and Rosemary walked up to the body. 

She said, with very little hesitation, “This is it. I killed Alastor Baudoin.”

Lilith looked as if she was about to say something, lips parted and eyes wide, before she began to chew on her lip, and then finally stood up and looked at Rosemary, right in her eyes. 

“I suppose you want me to help you bury the body?” Lilith asked, voice hard. Her shovel hit the ground, and Lilith’s eyes stopped glittering. 

Rosemary nodded, “If you don’t mind. At least give me the shovel.” 

Lilith sighed, pushed the shovel into the ground, and managed to get a bit of dirt right next to her, “How deep does the hole have to be, you think?” 

Rosemary began to get down, and she fiddled with Alastor’s limp fingers. 

“‘Don’t have a hint,” Rosemary said, “Maybe about seven feet.” 

Lilith huffed, and said., “Goddammit,” under her breath. 

Rosemary was going to comment on it, but didn’t. Lilith was lying, probably, but then again, Lilith was always lying to some degree. She could help her friend, regardless if someone was up in her apartment, tapping his feet, waiting for her. 

They started to dig at the hard, inhabitable Earth, coming up with piles of dirt. Lilith’s navy dress had started to become crusted with grime, and she looked a little disgusted. For all her love of nature, Lilith really only liked the pretty things, the flowers, the growing vines, the large leaves and the soft sand. Dirt was never her thing, especially not dirt so wet, and close to marshland and bog. Rosemary had never really considered dirt to be a problem, simply an annoyance to get to what she wanted. 

After digging perhaps three feet into the ground, Lilith stopped, resting her hand on the top of the shovel. Rosemary had opted to dig with her hands, and was surprisingly getting somewhere. She looked up, then her eyes traveled to the body, which they hadn’t moved. Rosemary kept wondering why she didn’t consider burning the body and throwing the remains in acid, but they were here already. Lilith would complain if they went back now. 

“Why’d you stop?” Rosemary asked. 

“I’m tired,” Lilith said, “Give me a few minutes.” 

They were silent for about ten seconds. 

“Why’d you do it?” Lilith asked. 

_“What?”_

“Why’d you do it? I won’t tell anyone.” 

Rosemary paused, “Boredom, I guess.” 

“Boredom? Really?” 

“What? There’s something wrong with that?” 

“Not _exactly,_ no.” 

“Not _exactly?_ ” 

“Well, I mean - I’ve always, you know this, Flower, I’ve always thought this - you shouldn’t go around murdering people without good reason. It’s just-” 

“Let me guess. Sad? Pathetic?” 

“No! Just - a little unbelievable. You and Alastor were friends, right?” 

“Mhm.” 

“There! I wouldn’t kill you out of boredom, well, I wouldn’t kill you outright, but certainly not for boredom.” 

“Yeah, yeah, I get it. Can we get back to digging now?” 

Lilith huffed, “Fine.” 

Lilith dug her shovel back in, and Rosie began to claw the dirt out of the ground with her hands. 

After a silent ten minutes, Lilith asked, “Why’d you really kill him, Rosie?” 

“I’m not tellin’ you.” 

“Rosie, you dragged me out into the woods and made me dig a hole to bury one of my best friends, the least you could do-” 

“Look. I’ll tell you later, how about that? I don’t want to think about it.” 

Lilith seemed to soften, “Alright, fine. You’re lucky I love you, Flower, you really are.” 

She nodded. They didn’t sufficiently bury the body until sunrise, and even then, it was hot out when they started to walk back. They didn’t talk much, and instead hurried back to Lilith’s apartment with a sense of urgency and unwellness. 

Lilith entered the code to the door on the panel, opened the door, and gave a quick wave goodbye. She raced quickly up her stairs, unlocked her door, and, after washing her hands and taking off her dirty dress, fell into her bed, placing her arms around someone still sleeping. 

Rosemary walked to her house, a quaint, gray-painted place on the far side of their town. She looked out on the trees, the homes, the way to the woods, and she walked through her door hoping there would be a sign she hadn’t suddenly kicked off some horrible events, that she would be okay, that nobody would find her. 

She changed into a nightdress, and found herself reading until the sun came up proper. She couldn’t shake the feeling that she’d made a terrible mistake.


	2. Are Muses Necessary, Anymore?

**August 9/10th, 1924**

A speakeasy, Rosemary could remember, a dark room illuminated by various small electric lights with a band roaring jazz music, and hushed laughter present all throughout. It was a very romantic setting, a good setting for a book. 

She’d come for a drink and some dinner, as she did every Saturday evening. The sun was setting outside, more were getting up and dancing, some people already drunk. She envied them, to a certain degree, she was sure nothing mattered to them.

Her typewriter rested against the leg of her chair, safe in its case, and she sipped on her wine. She was never a dancer, never particularly liked the noise and the hustle that these places brought, it was simply compulsion that kept her coming here. Compulsion, habit, and maybe a sort of tenderness for the flashing lights, the blooming brilliance, the sound of heels hitting the floor. 

She got a tap on her left shoulder, and whipped her head around. She was expecting to see some guy there, slim and pale and fair-haired, on his second drink, ready to impress a lady. She had no patience for men like that, or men in general, really. The closest things she’d ever had to romances were shared curiosities, a need to understand another person, to get inside someone’s mind. You can’t build a relationship off that, not really, and within three weeks of courtship Rosemary would find herself alone again. 

Instead of the man she was expecting, she saw a lady at the table next to her. She wore a peach-colored hat that fit tightly over her long, angular head and face. Her skin was clear, and she had dark brown freckles over her pointed nose and ruddy cheeks. Her eyes were green, the color of a garden that nobody had watered for a very long time, and she smiled pleasantly at Rosemary. 

“What’d you order?” She asked. Her voice sounded a bit like rain, a low, sulking pitter-patter against the trees, accompanied by small bits of lightning that shook you up and made you excited, and scared. So scared.

“Potatoes Parmentier,” she said, “You new?” 

The girl nodded, “Came in last week. Brilliant thing, this town is.” 

“Where’d you come from?” 

“California. ‘Bout a-” 

“Why’d you move _here?_ ” 

“Well,” she paused, “I work at the opera house, in New Orleans. Maurier, you heard of it? Cheapest housing I could find without being too far.” 

“Ah,” so she was a singer, then, or else a dancer, “I’m Rosemary Calvet, by the way.” 

“Oh, I know you! You write short stories, right? For the paper?” 

She found herself smiling, “Yes, I do.” 

“I’m Lilith Magne,” she said, “Call me Lili. Very pleased to meet you.” 

Lilith and Rosemary talked for a good while, and then Lilith moved her chair over, and they were eating together, and laughing, and Lilith managed to drag Rosemary onto the dance floor for a round of The Charleston. Lilith was, indeed, at the opera on her singing talent, and she had a little sister, and she was one of the best people Rosemary had ever met. Everything shined with her, glittered, spun, shone, spun more and more, until you were on the floor, laughing and imagining everything and nothing. 

By the time they left, they were both drunk, their stomachs filled with good food and rich desserts. Rosemary could’ve sworn that the stars flickered in morse code, telling each other that they had accomplished something wonderful, fate had been fulfilled, bonds would be mended, the world could be saved. 

Their heels clicked on the pavement, and they were both laughing madly for no reason at all. Rosemary had a car, but she wasn’t about to drive it. So her and Lilith walked home, and they yelled and screeched up at the stars that seemed to love them, and the warm, holding air, and the small comforting houses. It was all warm, lovely, shining, was this the way love worked? Did love make everything better, more interesting, lovelier, even more brilliant than it had previously been? 

Rosemary wasn’t sure. Not really. 

They arrived at Lilith’s apartments, which looked to be a shabby, horrible place on the very edge of town. It was exposed brick all around, and looked to be crumbling, yet it was admirable how well it seemed to stand up. 

“G’night, Flower,” Lilith slurred, grabbing onto the door handle, “You don’t mind if I call you that, do ‘ya?” 

“No! No, why _would_ I?” 

Lilith, before she walked in, yelled, “Pick me up next week! Same day! Nine!” and disappeared.

Rosemary sped home that night, and, still drunk, crafted the best story she had written, at least for a long time. She typed it out until the sun came up, and half of the words were misspelled, but she did it. A story about love, she figured, of two ladies, going on an adventure. Where they were going, or what they did, or how they did it, simply spurred out onto the pages as fast as she could type it. She had just moved into her cottage, then, and she found that this flurry of creativity, a brilliance only a muse could create, it made her surroundings better. More habitable. 

A muse, she realized, a _muse!_ That’s what Lili was! The kind the poets wrote about, the kind people wanted. Creatives dreamed of them, the muses, something to inspire, prize, restore your life to. She had found her muse! 

She went to Lili’s apartment the next week. She told the fraught landlady in the lobby who she was looking for, and Lilith came down wearing a dark green dress, and no hat. Her hair, so red it looked like it had been soaked in blood, was pulled into a loose twisted knot, and she wore dark black eyeshadow. She looked, not sophisticated, like Rosemary figured she would, but pure bohemian, the look for a woman who worked as an opera star, who inspired a great writer. 

“I’m extremely glad you got me out of that apartment,” Lili said, on their way out, “I feel like I’ve been sitting forever. I’m at the house until six, and even then I don’t do much over there. I’m not important, yet, I just wait for the stars to finish up. Then I go home, and I don’t do anything there, either, the place’s so small and so _dull,_ I feel like I’m just constantly staring at nothing.” 

“How much is rent again for you?” 

Lilith looked surprised, “Maybe, I don’t know, ten a month?” 

Lilith was worse off than Rosemary thought. 

“Well, then,” Rosemary said, “I’m glad to get you out of there. Boredom is terrible, really. I once read that boredom can drive any man to murder.” 

“You don’t believe that though, do you? Things like that only come out of people trying to be sophisticated.” 

“Oh, _really?_ ” 

Lilith paused, before saying, “Saying something like that, something so untrue, well - look, Evelyn Nesbit was bored and she became a famous actress. Victor Hugo was bored and he wrote novels. Someone was bored, and designed the clothes we’re wearing. Boredom doesn’t lead to murder, not unless you're a madman. Or you're desperate."

Rosemary was a little surprised, Lili seemed like she had thought about this a lot. It would be another good thing to write about, perhaps she’d be thrown into another writing frenzy, much like last night. 

The entire dinner progressed much like the last, with the spinning lights, the endless liquor, the flurry of music, the smears of lipstick and the slur of speech, but there was something melancholic about this night, distinctly sad, and it was fewer flurries and more contemplative. 

Boredom, that’s what it was. She wanted more, more, more, but there wasn’t any more. 

She crashed into bed, feeling dejected, but nevertheless, there was a peace about it. A strange recognition, a reminder that her life, her dinners, the parties she went to, she was getting bored. 

She awoke early the next morning, feeling various things swirl about her stomach, and the sun shine cruelly into her eyes. 


End file.
